


Relics of the Outer Rim

by spacecitytraffic



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: (for Nureyev), (for vespa), Hallucinations, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, and still it's mostly canon compliant, but they get it! they help each other! they heal!, canon typical idiocy and sadness from both of these two, eh close enough, i'm just sitting here yelling I Want Them To Be Friends So They Will Be, if that tells you anything at all, my original title for this was Peter Whatsisname and the Angel of Trauma: Electric Boogaloo, this was canon compliant until the rita episode came out, unlikely friends for the win
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:33:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24451408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacecitytraffic/pseuds/spacecitytraffic
Summary: If you'd asked Peter Nureyev an hour ago, he would have been hard-pressed to name anything worse than going back to Brahma and reliving the bloodstained memories there. But he has a new answer, now: reliving all that trauma right beside an irritable Vespa Ilkay. So no, the New Kinshasa heist is not going very well, if that's what you're asking.But Vespa has her own trauma around the Outer Rim, and this job isn't exactly easy for her, either.(In short: Nureyev and Vespa each have to face their own demons while trying not to strangle each other, some inconvenient truths come out at even more inconvenient times, they both deal with the mortifying ordeal of being known, and an unlikely friendship forms. All brought to you by a planetside shopping trip and a game of Rangian Street Poker!)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 116





	1. Vespa

Space is cold. Knives are sharp. The Outer Rim is dangerous. And Vespa Ilkay trusts Buddy Aurinko. Some things are just so obvious that you barely even need to spell them out. 

But it’s a damn good thing that the last item on the list is so dependable right now. Because as much as Vespa believes in her Bud's judgement, she can’t understand why she has to work with  _ him _ . Especially on a day like today. They’re docked on Brahma, just one planet away from Vespa’s old home, which is already making her tetchy enough. And Ransom is just the cherry on top of this fast-growing migraine. 

A snarl starts in Vespa’s throat, and she slams her knuckles against the doorframe for the millionth time. “Ransom! You done yet? It’s already ten in the morning, we gotta get moving!” 

“Ten? Oh my. Just… give me a few more moments, would you?” Ransom’s voice is muffled from deep inside his room, but he still sounds like an actor in some over-the-top stream. “I’m almost finished!”

“It’s been two hours,” Vespa growls. “Not even  _ your _ fancy-schmancy primping could  _ possibly _ take that long. And we gotta get our supplies before the rest of the team’s done with their part of the heist, which is getting closer and closer by the minute!”

The thief makes a distant sound of offense. “Primping?”

Vespa ignores him. “You’re with me today, Ransom. Buddy changed the lineup today on purpose, just to make that happen. I have no idea why she thought  _ that _ was a good plan, but since she did make that call, I think you better at least try to listen to it.” 

“Yes, yes, I’m coming. And if you’ll give me just two more moments, I believe I can actually help explain the captain’s rationale on… ah _ -ow! _ ” A thump sounds from inside the thief’s room. 

“Ransom!” Vespa’s hands clench into fists. “The hell was that?”

“Nothing, nothing! I’m perfectly fine, I just…” A rhythmic tapping approaches the door, which swings open to reveal Ransom’s apologetic smile. Finally. He’s hiding behind even more makeup than usual today, and he’s gripping a gilded walking stick in both hands. “My cane has just been giving me some trouble. That’s all.”

“Then don’t use it, idiot.” Vespa narrows her eyes at the thief, trying to figure out what in the world could’ve taken him that long. His pastel suit is definitely way fancier than it needs to be for a ten-minute grocery run, but there’s no way it took two whole hours to get right. 

“Well, you see, my… leg, has also been giving me some trouble,” Ransom admits sheepishly. “I happened to slip and twist it last night, which only aggravated my wound from back on Le Verrier, you remember…”

Oh, yes. Vespa remembers Le Verrier. She remembers a lot of gunfire. A lot of chaos swirling in her brain. A lot of blood that shouldn’t have  _ been _ there, and  _ yelling _ , and  _ voices _ , and… Yeah. Yeah, that hadn’t been a good day for either of them.

_ You gave me that wound _ , Ransom’s voice continues, even though Vespa can see that his lips aren’t moving any more.  _ That gunshot through my knee that could have crippled me forever. Your carelessness, your hallucinations could have destroyed me. You could have... _

“Don’t you dare put that on me, goddamnit.” Vespa glares daggers through the thief, even though she wants to believe he wouldn’t blame her outright. And even though she knows he’d be right to. 

“I wasn’t going to,” he protests. “I was just explaining…”

“Shut up and follow me.” Turning on her heel, Vespa marches down the corridor that leads to the Carte Blanche’s exit hatch. “So is that why Buddy told you to work with me today?”

“Ah, yes, I believe so.” The irregular taps of Ransom’s cane probably mean he’s scrambling to catch up. Good for him. “I did request a job that wouldn’t require running. Or six-inch heels,” he adds with a nervous attempt at a laugh.

“Huh.” Vespa shoves her hands in her pockets and doesn’t slow her stride. Mister Long-Legs can finally learn how he makes the normal-sized people on this ship feel.

“Don’t, don’t get me wrong, of course. I love stilettos as much as the next melodramatic master thief, and I love art heists even more. And it really is a tragedy to miss seeing Juno posing as a stuffy professor specializing in ancient Impressionistic painting techniques. Oh, if he confuses Monet and Manet just like I  _ told _ him not to…”

“Yeah, you can quit the nervous babbling now.” Vespa rounds a corner and heads for the Blanche’s front door. “We stock up on food, we replenish our medical supplies, and then we’re back on the ship in an hour, just in time to sail out of here with the rest of the team. Got it?”

Ransom looks away and mutters something about wanting to spend even less time on this godforsaken planet if at all possible. Finally, something Vespa can agree with. 

“All right. The shops are just a couple blocks away.” Ignoring her nerves, she grabs the door’s valves and starts undoing the latches. “Let’s go.”

As soon as Vespa wrenches open the ship’s exit hatch, she knows she’s screwed. The Carte Blanche is cold and comforting, quiet and predictable. But now, hot air rushes in and blasts onto her skin, and images of memories grab her mind in a searing grip. Falling. Radiation. The scorching Martian sun.  _ I own you now, Vespa Ilkay, and there’s nothing you can… _

“Vespa? What is it?”

She shuts her eyes, shakes her head, grits her teeth. The hallucinations clear. Now Vespa can see the cobblestones in front of her, and she jumps down onto them with much more confidence than she feels. “Nothing. Just thought the Outer Rim was supposed to be cold, is all.” 

“Well, it is  _ supposed _ to be,” Ransom mutters from behind her, clambering down from the Blanche onto the Brahman streets. 

“Yeah? What’s that mean?” Vespa starts walking, only half-listening to the thief’s answer as she scans the neighborhood around her. Rows of shops. Graffitied walls. Bustling, carefree, working-class people. The details of the environment go a long way towards grounding her, even though the languages on the street signs remind her a little too much of home. 

“This far from the sun, the Outer Rim planets are naturally frigid,” Ransom is explaining. “But this city breathes in machinery and breathes out pollution, and every laser blast raises the temperature another half degree. Yes, Brahma is a hothouse, and the temperature retention shields that once protected it are now working to boil it alive. It’s rather poetic, really, in a tragic sort of way…”

“Okay, this place is a mess. I get it. No need to write poetry about it.” Vespa shoves her hands into her pockets. “And anyway, lasers? Didn’t you hear Buddy?”

Ransom’s walking stick clatters clumsily over the cobblestones. “Hm?”

“There hasn’t been a laser fired here in two decades,” Vespa snaps, trying to jog the thief’s memory. “Not since New Kinshasa got haunted. Something like that.”

Catching up to her, Ransom squints up at the floating city on the horizon. “That’s… that’s New Kinshasa, up there.” His voice is oddly tight, and Vespa can’t tell whether that’s a statement or a question. For a chameleon like him, even tiny indicators of stress are weird, to say the least. Something’s up. 

“Yeah.” She studies the thief out of the corner of her eye. “I gotta say, Ransom I don't get it. You’re an expert on this place’s messed-up  _ meteorology _ , but you’re clueless about basic facts of life here?”

“I travel often, I talk to many people, I learn eclectic things.” Ransom shrugs elegantly and keeps walking, but the tight line of his shoulders stays static as he limps on his cane. “Have you ever been forced to impersonate a climate scientist while running from your life? You become an expert in strange things when a cover story requires it, and really, scientific expertise always becomes useful in the strangest of ways…”

“Babbling again,” Vespa growls. She glances over her shoulder, scanning alleys and corners for movement. But nothing is there--at least, nothing that stays if she blinks enough times. And yet, when she looks to Ransom for confirmation, his body language is just as paranoid as hers is. It doesn’t add up. Unless...

The thief huffs, pulling his jacket tighter around him. “That was barely three sentences.” 

“Doesn’t matter. You’re nervous, so you’re babbling.” Vespa checks her surroundings yet again, slowing her stride. “And you’re making me nervous, too.”

“Nervous?” Ransom chuckles. But even his laugh sounds tightly controlled, and his eyes are darting just like Vespa’s. They’re the only part of him that doesn’t look vapor-locked into place. “Why would I be nervous? We’re about to reach the shops, all we need to do is pick up some supplies and head back to the ship.”

Vespa presses her lips together and stops walking altogether. “You saw something. Something is freaking you the hell out, which is making me wonder why you aren’t telling me a thing.”

_ Oh, Vespa, _ she hears Ransom reply.  _ Are you sure you aren’t just seeing things? Hearing things? Making things up to be terrified of? Is your delay going to detain the rest of the team for no reason? Is your paranoia going to get Buddy killed? _

Close eyes. Shake head. Gone. 

“I’m fine,” the idiot thief is saying. “If being on Brahma is making me a bit… tense, just know that the reasons are entirely personal. And they will not interfere at all with my completing a simple shopping run. Now, can we please move on? We are on a schedule, you know.”

Vespa blinks again, but this version of Ransom is staying put. “Yeah. I guess so. Let’s go.”

_ Or maybe I’m actually keeping something very important from you,  _ Not-Ransom leers from her peripheral vision.  _ Maybe I’m leading you into a trap. Maybe it’s revenge for my leg, maybe… _

She shakes her head for the millionth time, starting to feel like a dog with fleas. Gone. It’s gone, her brain is shutting up, and it’s gonna  _ stay _ that way, damnit... 

“So… shall we?” Ransom’s eyebrows are raised, and Vespa realizes she hasn’t started walking yet. 

“Yeah. We, uh,  _ shall _ .” Vespa sets her jaw and starts walking. “That shop looks like a good place for supplies. Let’s start there.”

“Sounds like an excellent idea to me,” Ransom replies automatically, mind clearly elsewhere. 

“Sure.” Taking a quick breath to steady herself, Vespa pushes open the door. Cool air washes over her, and the jangling bell makes her flinch. But the shop is innocuous--small and almost cute, with trinkets on display and wide aisles of space travel supplies. Multiple exits, wide windows. Vespa almost starts to relax. “I’ll get the medical basics and stuff for Buddy to eat,” she mutters. “You grab food for the rest of us. Not too expensive, okay? And nothing too spicy, Rita doesn’t do that.”

“Yes, yes, I know.” Ransom’s voice is hurried, and his eyes are fixed on something across the store. “Nothing too expensive or spicy. It’s always the same, and you know I only made the mistake of buying that Venusian curry once...”

Vespa raises an eyebrow at him, but he walks away before she can say anything. Oh, well. She tells herself he can’t mess up anything too important on his own. 

_ Not like you, kid. You can’t do a single goddamn thing right, and… _

“Medical supplies,” she mutters, shaking her head and marching toward the right aisle. If she knows anything, she knows what it takes to keep people in one piece. Chemicals, formulas, bodies, math. So she focuses on what makes sense. 

Vespa grabs a brown-paper shopping bag, and her fingers flit over the shelves like magpies. Take this, leave that, substitute these cheaper chemicals for that overpriced formula. It’s automatic, and before long, her sack is full of the clinking of glass bottles. She’s done within minutes. Next stop, nutrient packets for Buddy, and then it’s time to go find Ransom. Vespa just really,  _ really _ hopes he hasn’t gotten into too much trouble yet.

When she spots a half-full shopping bag sitting alone on the shop’s tile floor, her guard flies right back up. Damnit. The thief’s been taken, or he betrayed her, or he’s running away and never coming back, or… 

Or, as the case may be, he’s just standing there and staring at a rack of keychains. Huh. The light from the window slants across his face, casting his angular features into sharp contrast, and he looks as still as a statue. He’s holding something small in one reverent hand and gripping his cane tightly with the other.

Vespa walks up to him, clomping her boots loudly on the floor to let him know she’s coming. But he doesn’t seem to notice. His gaze is transfixed on a little golden image that rests in his palm, like a miniature version of those icons of saints they used to use back on Earth. It’s a picture of an angel with no face, with a knife in one hand and the entire city of New Kinshasa in the other. Underneath it in an old Cyrillic font is written one, unfamiliar word. 

Squinting, Vespa tries to sound it out. “Nu… Nureyev?”

The thief flinches and whirls around, and the icon clatters to the floor. “What did you just say?” he demands, voice quiet and intense. His eyes lock onto hers, then dart away, then snap back into focus. 

Frowning, Vespa steps back. “Isn’t that what the little trinket says? The one with the wings and the lasers you were holding.”

“The… the little…” Ransom’s chest is moving in tight, small breaths. “Oh. The, erm, trinket. Yes, well… apparently this character is somewhat of an urban legend around here. You can... you can find that name in any shop you’d like.” There’s something strange in his voice that Vespa doesn’t get. 

“Huh.” She glances down at the golden figure, then at the discarded brown bag. “So are you gonna finish what you were doing, or what?” 

“Oh, ah, of course.” A nervous smile spreads across the thief’s sharp teeth, and he bends down to pick up the icon. His cane wobbles disconcertingly as he hauls himself back up. “Sorry about that, I just… it’s such an odd legend, isn’t it?”

Vespa raises her eyebrows. “What, the ghost who showed up in New Kinshasa to haunt the rich and save the poor, then vanished into thin air? Or the fact that it actually scared the politicians enough to stop lasering people to death?”

“Well, the latter, I suppose.” Ransom hefts the bag onto his hip and surreptitiously drops the trinket into it. “It would be a bit absurd to think that something like that could even have a chance of working...”

Vespa squints at him. “Huh.”

“What?” he snaps defensively. 

“Nothing, I just…” A conclusion hangs just out of reach in Vespa’s mind, and she resolves to keep it in her peripheral vision until she has time to sit down and figure out what it is. “Nothing. Come on, what do you have left? Let’s work together and get out of here.”

The two confer briefly and hurry to finish up the shopping trip. Ransom stays as focused as he can, but Vespa notices him trying to sneak a can of exotic spices, a deck of Outer Rim playing cards, and a bubbly Brahman drink into his technicolor coat. Well, that’s not her problem. If he gets caught, he’ll have to deal with it.

And then they’re at the counter and checking out, and Vespa is convinced that they’re almost home free. The cashier is cheerful and portly, and she scans the supplies fast. But then she notices Ransom’s stupid keychain and pauses. “Are you two from around here?”

Vespa glances warily at the thief, paranoia already rising in her throat, but Ransom is opening his mouth before she can stop him. “No, we’re only passing through. I just like to pick up souvenirs from every planet I stop on. For my daughters, you understand. Those three just love shiny reminders of their pa.”

The shopkeeper’s round face bursts into a grin. “Daughters? I have two sons! And I tell you what, you picked a good gift for your kids. It ain’t just a keepsake, it’s got a story behind it, too!”

Ransom’s friendly smile gets imperceptibly tighter. “Ah yes, the tales of Brahma’s Angel. I’ll be sure to tell them all about it.”

“So you know the legend!” The cashier leans forward on her elbows, pointing to the twisting font on the bottom of the trinket. “But there’s one more secret this little guy is hiding. In direct sun, the light reflects to spell out the ghost’s name--Nureyev.”

Ransom flinches. “Ah, yes, wonderful. We are a bit late, however…”

“This’ll just take a second.” The shopkeeper cups her hand over the icon, blocking the light over the intricate text. “You see, in dimmer light, the font changes to spell out the pseudonym the ghost was using when it took control of New Kinshasa. The name that thrives in the shadows, see? Just like the story says!”

The thief snatches the trinket from the shopkeeper’s hands and drops it in the bag, chuckling an airy, hearty laugh. “Wow, that’s really something! Here’s enough creds to pay for the supplies…” He swiftly slides a few bills on the counter. “And then we’d better be going. Thanks so much for the story--my girls will be so pleased!”

The cashier blinks. “I…”

“Wonderful, goodbye!” Ransom sweeps past Vespa and out the shop’s door, out onto the sweltering streets of New Kinshasa. 

Vespa squints at the cashier, still groping for words for a few moments. “Ma’am? Did that… did that thing say  _ Ransom _ ?”

“Uh, yes. Peter Ransom was the name chosen by the Angel of Brahma, the Ghost of New Kinshasa. Everybody around here knows that.” The shopkeeper glances at the window. “But is your friend all right? He left awfully fast.”

Ah. There’s that conclusion that was hovering just out of reach. It’s slamming into Vespa now, and she’s smacking herself for not seeing it sooner. Ransom is… aw, hell...

“Yeah, he’s fine,” Vespa manages. “Thanks for all your help, lady.” Then she turns on her heels, grips her supplies tighter, and dashes out into the street. 

The thief is already just a flash of pastel colors up ahead, clutching his brown bag under one arm and limping furiously on his flashy golden cane. Peter Ransom. The legend that singlehandedly paralyzed the entirety of New Kinshasa.

...and he just tripped over his own feet. Typical. 

Vespa grits her teeth and chases after him, shoving down the swirl of questions and objections and begrudging admiration in her head. Now is not the time. They have to get back to the Carte Blanche and get off this damn planet. Then maybe she can get a minute to sit down and figure this thing out. 

“Wait up a minute, Ransom, not all of us have mile-long legs!”


	2. Nureyev

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The nameless thief does not like being known. But when it comes down to it, it's just as true to say that he doesn't know how to be known, even when he wants to. So it's fortunate that Vespa Ilkay, Rangian Street Poker, and a few well-timed questions are here to guide him through that mortifying ordeal.
> 
> (or, as the discord says, Peter Nureyev Has An Anxiety Attack ASMR)

The thief manages to keep it together until he reaches the Carte Blanche--very tightly together, all clenched jaws and one-word replies to an infuriatingly loud Vespa. But the moment the doors hiss behind him and the cold air wraps around him like a shroud, his tightly wound exterior just _breaks_. 

The basket and cane tumble from his hands, and he stumbles against the wall, shoving his fist against his mouth to keep from sobbing. All the memories are coming back now. The heat, the language, the blood-red light, the lingering stench of ozone that still hasn’t gone away, not even now that it’s been twenty years since those godforsaken lasers were last fired. And the fear, too. Especially the fear. All of it. 

“Ransom!” That’s… that’s an old name. Vespa is yelling it, he dimly realizes. She’s staring at him like he’s some sort of curiosity on a shelf, a fossil in the process of fracturing and crumbling away. 

He can’t handle her scrutiny. He can’t handle anyone seeing him right now, seeing… this. Especially not someone who hardly knows him and who hates what little she does know, especially not Vespa Ilkay. So he does what he always does with things he can’t handle and can’t run away from. 

He blocks her out. 

The thief slides down the wall until he’s sitting, hunching his knees to his chest, keeping shoulders and throat so very tight, keeping his eyes squeezed shut, clamping down on a sob. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He got desperate last night and didn’t catch himself when he fell, he even twisted as he tumbled so it would be sure to hurt his leg more. It was supposed to work. It was supposed to keep him off this godforsaken planet. He was just supposed to run one errand, he was supposed to be able to handle one errand, this was supposed to be fine, _he_ was supposed to be fine. 

But Brahma was the planet that starved him and sharpened him and turned his blade against the man who had raised him. And now, it has somehow gathered the nerve--the audacity--to _outgrow_ him. These days, street art blooms on the buildings like dandelions in an overlooked road. Shopkeepers smile and make conversation. Blood and blades have turned to rumors and legends. Murderers and terrorists have turned to ghosts and angels. And there is food on every shelf. 

The thief has never learned how to exist anywhere like that. He has always been and will always be a son of the old Brahma, full of flash and fast-paced moves and _hunger_ , thriving in danger and slipping in the shadows and flinching at everything that moves. But this new planet… it may not be dazzlingly prosperous, but it is quiet and it is steady and it is safe. It has become everything he could never be. 

“Ransom? Ransom!”

“Don’t call me that,” the thief mumbles, burying his face into his knees. “Please.” The edges of the stupid trinket are digging into his sweaty palm, and those abrasions sting from the salt. He can’t know whether Vespa read his pseudonym in the shop, but he knows that the Carte Blanche is dark enough to expose the writing now. She can’t not know by now.

“Then what the hell am I supposed to call you?” Vespa growls. “You’re… you’re the Angel, aren’t you? The Ghost of New Kinshasa?”

He nods imperceptibly, throat aching, voice thick. “I’m a ghost,” he whispers. “The saint of a city that murdered millions, of a planet that sells my bones in every shop window, of a life I cannot hope to learn to live…”

Then Vespa plops down beside him. She’s silent for a little while. “You really do babble when you’re freaking out, don’t you?”

The thief squeezes his eyes shut. “I… I’m sorry, I…”

“Just let me do the talking for a minute.” Vespa scoots towards him, just close enough that he can feel her presence by his side but just far enough so that they’re not quite touching. She’s… she’s trying to calm him down, the thief realizes in surprise. “I grew up on Ranga, you know. Right next to here.”

He swallows hard, trying to figure out why that would be relevant. “That’s…”

“Yeah. It sucked. I know.” Vespa puffs out a sigh. “But these days, Ranga is… well, it’s nothing like it was before. But then, I guess the whole Outer Rim is different from everything I remember. It’s less... Every time I stop out here, I end up hearing more and more stories about the Angel of Brahma.” She pauses. “About, uh, about you, I guess. About what you did.”

 _What you did._ And just like that, the thief is back in that red room again. Adrenaline surging in time with his betrayal. A knife in his hand. A sturdy, solid body in his arms, rapidly turning into lurching cold dead weight. The body of a man who smelled like running and starships and that unbearably hot curry he always insisted on making. 

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. His voice is high and strange. “I’m sorry you had to hear…”

“Hear what?” Vespa sounds almost surprised. “Ransom, er, Nureyev, or whatever… what exactly do you think your reputation is?”

The thief’s mouth opens, but he can’t force any sound past his razor sharp teeth. 

“Out here, Peter Nureyev is turning into a hero.” Vespa’s voice is almost bittersweet when she pronounces that phrase. It’s never sounded this soft before. “I’ve been hearing scared people whisper his name, and I’ve been seeing angry people shouting it at the corporations that want to own them. Peter Nureyev is the man who took down the Guardian Angel System, he’s the man who turned tyrants afraid, he was...”

“He was a _boy_ ,” the thief murmurs without thinking. So his voice does work, just... just not, apparently, when he wants it to. He can’t stand to be seen this way, all the worst parts of him known all wrong by a total stranger. By millions of total strangers, all scattered across the Outer Rim and building monuments to his greatest sins like he’s some sort of twisted messiah. His name is _everywhere_. “Do you… do you believe those things? About Peter Nureyev?”

“That’s the story people are telling,” Vespa says noncommittally. But that’s not an answer, and she knows it. She eventually relents into a sigh. “Truth is, I don’t… I don’t understand it. I can’t pretend that I do. But all the same, I’ve… Well, I’ve wished more than a few times that I could’ve had a name like that to hold onto, growing up. And that’s something, I guess. It’s something.”

Something chokes in the thief’s throat, a strangled sound no saviour would make. “You _shouldn’t_ ,” he manages. “I don’t, I can’t…”

“If you don’t want to tell your side of the story, you don’t have to.” Vespa moves to start standing up. “I just wanted you to know what Peter Nureyev means to, well, the rest of the galaxy. That’s all.”

“But I do,” he chokes out plaintively. “I want to, I do, I just... I don’t know how.” He buries his face further into himself. “I don’t know how.”

Vespa pauses, just stands there, and studies him for a long few seconds. Then she sits back down next to him. “All right.” She seems okay with being quiet for now.

“What do I do?” the thief mumbles.

“From a medical perspective?” Vespa seems to think for a minute. “You wanna ground yourself. Find stuff you can see, hear, feel. Do something you can concentrate on. It’ll help you breathe better.” 

The thief gives a hesitant nod. Then he slips his hand into his coat pocket, fumbling for the deck of cards he picked up at the store. He’d stolen them. Just to prove that he could. Just to prove that the sky really wasn’t going to rain down laser bolts to destroy him. 

But the lasers hadn’t come. Nobody even noticed his sleight of hand. And the shopkeeper had smiled a wide, easy, natural smile. 

Automatically, the thief slides the cards out of their packet and shifts his position, stretching out his legs to make room in his lap. Then he starts shuffling. The waxy cards flick beneath his thumbs, stiffer than the ones used for Solar games, and a bit thicker, too. Grounding, grounding, grounding. He can focus on the familiar sensation, he can hear the distinct noise of a good shuffle and feel the deck slip into a bridge beneath his fingers. He can count cards, too, focusing on stray glimpses of their faces when his shuffling gets lax. The deck is his lifeline. 

After a few minutes, the cards start bending easier. He’s broken them in enough to play a game, and he feels steady enough to try, too. He glances over at Vespa, who’s just been sitting with him in silence. “You said you were from Ranga?”

“Yeah,” she replies warily. “Why?”

The thief starts dealing before he even asks the question. “May I assume you know how to play Rangian Street Poker, then?”

Vespa snorts--actually snorts. “You’d be an idiot to try and beat me.”

“All right, I’ll take that as a yes.” He gives a watery smile, still sorting out the cards with the grace and swiftness of muscle memory. “Would you be up for a few hands, then? I, I don’t have the full ten-deck set, so we’ll have to play a simplified version, if that’s all right with you...”

Vespa shrugs and scoots to sit cross legged with her back against the opposite wall of the corridor. “It’s been a long day, might as well have some fun. Deal me in.”

“Wonderful.” The thief slides Vespa her cards, then picks up his own hand and begins scanning it. “Any housekeeping rules you’d like to propose before we begin?”

Vespa arches an eyebrow, already sorting her hand. “Well, are we gonna do collateral?” 

“I don’t see a need to.” He frowns at his cards. It’s not a bad hand, really, and maybe the safety of a probable win is what gives him the courage to keep speaking. “I… I’d like to tell the truth. Of my own accord. And of course, I trust you enough to do the same.”

“Huh. That’s fair.” Vespa eyeballs him. “Any topics you wanna make off-limits?”

Biting his tongue, the thief shakes his head. “You may... you may ask me anything.” He swallows. No turning back now. “Remember how I wanted to, erm, explain? But didn’t know how?”

“Oh.” Vespa blinks. “ _Oh_. All right.” 

“Quite.” The thief keeps his gaze fixed on his cards. His confidence in his hand is draining as regret creeps in, as cold as frost weaving through his chest. “Would you like to declare any topics off-limits for yourself?”

She shrugs. “Just don’t ask about any stuff between me and Bud, I guess.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of that.” The thief takes a deep breath. “So, are you ready to begin?”

“Like I said.” Vespa grins. “You’d be an idiot to try and stop me.”

“All right.” He gives his cards one last scan, then asks, “What was the thing you hated most about Ranga?”

Vespa runs her tongue over her teeth, tilting her head back and forth as she deliberates. “What’s something you regret about Brahma?”

His throat tightens. This was an awful idea. But he manages to steady his voice and muster a smile. “All right. Play.”

The thick, waxy cards fly fast from there. For a turn or two, the thief is convinced that he’s safe, that he can win handily without even breaking a sweat. But then he catches a glint in Vespa’s dark eyes when she draws, and he knows she just picked up something formidable. 

But somehow, he stays utterly focused, even when his defeat becomes inevitable. The flick of cards beneath his fingers keeps his head in the moment, and against an opponent like Vespa, he can’t afford to let his mind wander for a moment. Nureyev trusts every snap judgment completely--he has to, or the game will rush along without him. His thoughts are filled to the brim with flip, shuffle, thrust, parry, East, West, Corners…

Until Vespa plops down a flawless Ten of Rabbits with a smirk. “Can you beat this?”

“Unfortunately… no, I can't.” He shows his hand, a mere Solar Straight. “Your win. You timed that _perfectly_.”

“I know I did.” Vespa grins. “So? Time to pay up.”

“Ah.” He swallows. “I…”

Then there’s a little pause. Just long enough for the doubts to rush back in, just enough time for all the suppressed second-guessing to resurface in the thief’s mind. But he can’t back out, can’t run away. He wanted this, he knew he’d never speak if he didn’t force himself to, but now… but now he’s here, and… He closes his eyes, draws in a long breath, and shuffles his cards in his hands to steady himself. 

_What’s the thing you regret most about Brahma?_

His vision is going red and red and _red_ , but he can wall that red in, it doesn’t have to consume him, he doesn’t have to be swallowed in it. Those four red walls can form a diamond. Think jewel heists, think native territory, think precision and perfect control. And if you smooth out the shape, you create a heart. Love, learning, leaning, shoulders, _Juno_. Red can’t control Nureyev if he learns to take the color back for himself. Red means whatever he says it does, now. 

“I killed someone,” he finds himself stating carefully. “Someone… confusing. I, I don’t know if he needed to die, I thought he did at the time… actually, I still think he did, at least some of the logical parts of me do, but what if there was another way, and... He was confusing. That much is certain. And now he’s dead, and I’ll never get a chance to understand.”

When he opens his eyes, Vespa is just gazing at him. No analysis or scrutiny, just acceptance and understanding. And his chest feels a little like a watch unwinding, losing its tightly coiled tension, moving with freer friction to push back the cold. Vespa nods once, with all the reverence of a priest at confession and all the coolness of a still forest pool. 

“Thank you,” Peter Nureyev says quietly.

Vespa nods again and tears her hand, and the satisfying rip of the sturdy cards feels almost like closure. “You know, I, uh… I get it, sorta. Complicated memories. Of a person. It’s hard for me out here, too.”

He blinks once, surprised. “Oh?”

Vespa shrugs. “Mine was a dad.”

“Mine almost was.” Nureyev glances away and keeps his voice soft. “So… you and him, what…”

“Anyway, you up for another round?” Vespa asks brusquely, cutting him off like she hadn’t heard the question. Of course he’ll have to earn the answer to something like that.

“Sure.” With an attempt at a smile, he shuffles his cards back into the deck and starts dealing. “Sure, yes, of course. It’s your turn to ask first, and... Why don’t we do blind bids this time? Ask before we look at our cards?”

“Hmm.” Vespa props her elbows onto her knees as she ponders. “What’s… what’s something you don’t regret? Something you’re proud of, from that day?”

Nureyev’s breathing tightens just a bit, but for a different reason this time. But he keeps up the rhythm of his dealing, even while realizing that he’s… he’s never asked himself that before. “What’s the best decision you’ve ever made?” he finally queries in response. Vespa’s father can wait.

Judging by the twitch of Vespa’s lip, the thief’s question startles her, too. She glances down at the growing pile of cards in front of her, but she knows she can’t touch them until she assents. Finally, she nods. “Play.”

They both pick up their cards at once, and Nureyev squints at his hand critically. Not bad, not good. He may be able to pull this off.

Then the flurry of plays, counterplays, draws, and swaps begins. Vespa’s good, but her opponent has been trained in perception and manipulation for over twenty years now. He’s starting to pick up on her tics and tells, and his moves are becoming more and more strategic. At last, a sudden pattern emerges in his hand, dazzling in its beauty. Just one more card, and…

“There,” he announces, flinging his cards onto the table. “A Venusian fourfold. Just _try_ conquering that.”

Vespa sighs and drops her cards—a sorry assortment of twos and bees. “I can’t. Damnit. Your win.”

With a smile, Nureyev gathers up his cards for tearing. “Well then. Your proudest decision?”

“Oh, uh… yeah. That.” Vespa stares at her boots so intensely that they seem in danger of combusting. “I guess… well, it wasn’t exactly a decision, really. It was just… I never followed through with a bad one. Is all.”

Nureyev tilts his head to the side, resisting the urge to pry. He appreciates her quiet acceptance in listening to him. She deserves the same courtesy.

“I dunno if this is actually my proudest choice ever,” Vespa backpedals quickly. “It’s just—recent. So it’s what came to mind.”

“You’re fine,” he says softly. He can’t help talking a little. “Go ahead.”

“All right, all right.” Vespa huffs and crosses her arms, but she looks a little like she’s hugging herself against the cold. “I just… right before all that stuff with the invader, the robot? I was gonna leave. I was gonna pack up and go, and the rest of the crew wouldn’t have to deal with me, because I may have been good for something once upon a time, but now…”

All of a sudden, his throat is dry. “Go on.”

Vespa shakes her head to clear it, screwing her eyes shut and opening them again. “I’m not as young as I used to be. I’m not as healthy as I used to be. I’m not as… well, you get the point. I felt like I was falling apart.”

He nods, more in recognition than encouragement. And now his traitor eyes are beginning to sting. “But you decided to stay anyway?”

Shrugging, Vespa looks away. “Like I said, it wasn’t much of a decision. Everything got so chaotic, and we had to just focus on getting through it, and then there was all the _aftermath_ to deal with, and I still wanted to, but there was so much to do, and… well, I didn’t get a chance to. I still haven’t gotten a chance to. That’s all.”

“I…” A gulp. “For the record, I’m glad you stayed.”

Vespa glances up at him quickly, but hides her surprise after a moment or two. “Yeah. So am I.”

The silence that follows is strange, so the thief clears his throat to fill it. “Well, I suppose that’s it for that round.” Gripping the thick cards, he tears his hand and tosses it over his shoulder. “Would you like to play another?”

“Sure.” Vespa blinks a few times, shifting to get more comfortable. “Blind bids again? That worked pretty well last time.”

He shrugs and starts dealing again. “I have no objections.” 

“Sounds good.” She nods. “Your ask, then.” 

“Oh, yes, right. How about...” The thief squints at the cards as he deals, trying to follow the rapid movements of his fingers while simultaneously formulating a good question. “When you look at me, what do you see? Now? After today?”

Vespa’s eyebrows arch up, but she takes a moment to think about that question. “Mind if I ask you the same thing?”

“Only if you win.” He lets himself chuckle and grin as he finishes dealing. “But yes, I’ll play.”

“Well, then. Game on.”

This round is the fastest one yet. Cards fly back and forth, stacks are exhausted and shuffled and flipped and spun, corners and directions are called with urgent, adrenaline-soaked tones. They’re starting to get loud, actually, and grins spread across both thieves’ faces. Vespa and Nureyev are locked in something between a death-match and a tango, a flurrying hurricane of activity that can only grow faster and faster until…

Until the ship’s exit door hisses open, and a tweed-suited Juno is staring down at them in utter bewilderment. His eye flicks from the discarded groceries, to the incomprehensible array of cards, to his two sheepishly grinning crewmates sitting on the floor. His eyebrows knit together, and he seems to be searching for words for several moments. Finally, eloquent as ever, he settles on a suitable phrase.

“What the _hell_?” He blinks. “Wait, you know what? On second thought, I don’t think I wanna know.”

“You may be correct on that front,” Nureyev replies bemusedly. “May I gather that the heist is completed, then?”

Juno blinks again, then seems to remember what he was doing. “Oh. Right. Yeah. Buddy sent me ahead to get everything ready to go, so, uh… we should probably get ready to go. Or something.” 

“Yes, that does sound appropriate.” Laying aside his cards, the thief picks up his cane and struggles to stand. “Well, Vespa, I do apologize for not being able to finish off that last hand…”

“Eh, we can always come back to it tonight.” Vespa gives a rare grin and hops to her feet. “I don’t sleep that much anyway.”

Nureyev smiles back and glances around at the mess strewn about on the floor. Something golden glints from the shadows, and he draws in a quick breath for courage. “Vespa, would you mind helping me gather all this up? My leg is aching, and…”

“Your leg?” Juno interrupts, furrowing his brows even deeper. “The hell happened while I was gone getting that damn Monet? I told you to call me if anything...”

“Manet, dear,” Nureyev corrects, playfully whacking Juno’s ankles with his cane. “I’ll tell you all about it tonight. But in the meantime, shouldn’t you be turning on the engines?”

Juno’s eyebrows are getting quite the workout today. He glances back and forth between Vespa and Nureyev, looking more baffled with each flit of that lovely eye. Then finally, he pinches his nose and lets out a defeated sigh. “You know what? Maybe I should. Maybe I should.” 

_“Toodles_.” Vespa wiggles her fingers at him. 

“Just… what…” Finally, Juno gives up and walks away. “Never mind.”

Vespa snorts. “Oh, he’s _fun_. I’ll get the cards, and you can take the groceries?”

“Actually…” With some effort, Nureyev kneels back down and begins gathering up the cards. “Why don’t you gather up the supplies? I’ll help you as soon as I finish collecting the deck.” 

“Suit yourself.” She squats by an overturned paper bag, but then the gilded keychain quickly catches her eye. “Hey, Ran… Nureyev?”

“Ransom is all right in public,” he says lightly, not looking up from his work. The name is stained so deeply with crimson red that his tongue tastes rust just curling around it. But he can reclaim it, all the same. “What do you need?”

“You dropped your little icon thingy,” Vespa offers hesitantly. “Do you want me to…”

“You can keep it, if you’d like.” Nureyev taps the stack of cards against the ground to straighten its edges, then coaxes the deck back into its box. “I… I trust you to keep it safe.”

He can sense Vespa’s eyes on him, and he can guess from her silence that she’s gathered the significance of his words. “Huh. Thanks, I guess.”

Nureyev smiles a little, into the shadows, where no one can see. It feels strange, for Vespa to be the one to carry that little piece of Brahma with him. But he supposes it does make sense. They are, both of them, aging children of a shifting Outer Rim. Existing in a liminal space between what once was and what could possibly be. Growing older and more tired and more guilt-worn every second. Choosing to keep on anyway. So for Nureyev, trusting Vespa with his name doesn’t feel like a grand gesture or a leap of faith. It just feels like… like handing off a hot cup of coffee to a friend for a moment, to cool his scorching fingers. 

Hmm. That’s certainly quite the metaphor. It truly does feel like the never-ending heat of Brahma’s memory was what seared off the thief’s fingerprints all those years ago. But he’s not the only one holding onto that legend these days. And… well, he could have sworn, back on the streets, that the air had felt just a few degrees cooler than before. 

Brahma is colder. People are safer. The Outer Rim is growing, like a dandelion in a sidewalk crack. And Peter Nureyev is beginning to trust Vespa Ilkay. Some truths are so incredible, he has to tell them to himself again and again before believing them. But he is certainly grateful for the last item on that list, especially on a day like today.

"Thank you, Vespa,” Nureyev murmurs quietly. “And I look forward to our next game.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this! This was beta'ed by the amazing, incredible @brunchandtedium, who caught my goofs and encouraged me beyond belief. Many, many thanks to you. Is it technically completely canon compliant? Well, it could've been, if I'd posted it a few weeks ago. Ah, well, c'est la vie. Comments make me incredibly happy, and if you enjoyed reading about these traumatized dorks, then please pass this on to a friend!


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